And She Cries
by Sophira
Summary: Luxia is dying. Loki is bitter. He's searching for a way off of Midgard, all while coping with his crippling mortality and the eye of this strange patient. She's waiting to die, craving it despite her adamancy that she isn't suppose to be there and denying her wandering eye drawn to the spitfire sharing her room.


_**The original work is titled Look After You and I am only taking pieces from those chapters and adding them in here, if anyone feels familiar with dialogue. The plot has changed greatly, but I hope this piece receives equal love and I hope you all enjoy.**_

* * *

She's spitting up blood again.

This time, she's just barely made it into the hospital bed and already there's a deep smear of blood over her right foot, across the floor. She mutters lowly to herself, cursing every God in existence as she hacks up yet another mouthful; her teeth itch. She sets the bin she had plucked up on the moving tray beside the bed, eyeing the new, white curtain strung up between her bed and one that was empty when she had left.

A nurse is walking by with a tray of food, but Luxia makes her stop. "Hey," the nurse jumps and cranes her head back, watching Luxia wave a hand at the curtain. "New patient or what," she's not very good with words.

The nurses eyes flicker to the curtain and she nods softly, brushing back a rogue burgundy curl. "Yes, young man was struck by a car in Marietta," Luxia hums as she hoists herself up onto the edge of her bed. "Could you please send for a the doctor on his chart when he wakes up?"

Luxia nods softly, undoing the bandana around her head and setting it to the side; there's long, curled strands of dark hair stuck to the pattern. She shouldn't be here - Luxia _shouldn't be here_ \- but she was dying and you go to a hospital for that. Leukemia, late stage and they're pretty sure she won't make it but they're trying their best to keep her alive. They'd been surprised she was even functioning when they detected the cancer - it was in a very late stage, not matching with her symptoms but her body was beginning to understand the strain it was under and was deteriorating at an alarming rate.

She jumped when there was a soft groan from the other side of the white curtain, reaching for the nurse call button but her fingers only hovered. She licked her lips slowly, curious - _too curious,_ she knew - and then dropped her hand to her lap, waiting patiently before she reached over and tugged the curtain back, poking her head in.

He definitely _looked_ like he'd been hit by a car, with the curve of a bruise on his jaw and his legs both in casts. His hair was greasy with sweat and he was muttering between groans, fingers clenching at the fabric of the sheets. His chest was bare and wrapped in bandages that visibly tugged at the skin - if he were awake, he'd complain about how tight they were. Hell, _she_ wanted to complain about them and they weren't even on her.

His eyes move behind his lids, long lashes brushing over his cheeks before they peel up and reveal a bright pair of green eyes. Luxia just stares at him, unable to really do anything else; her legs feel like jelly, and not because of his face, she assures herself.

Though he's awake, he doesn't necessarily seem all the way there and Luxia doubts he is even seeing her. His eyes dart past her face, chest rapidly building in momentum, rising and falling in a labored pant.

She knows a panic attack when she sees one.

So, Luxia presses the call button and sits on the edge of her bed, watching him until the nurses come.

* * *

A groan slides past his lips and he tries to open his eyes but snaps them shut the moment he is assaulted by a bright light hanging overhead. Everything on him hurts, he has never felt so much pain in his long life. . .he has never felt any pain in his long life. He tries thinking on what had happened to cause this pain and then he remembers everything that happened before he passed out and the anger is thick on his tongue. The surface beneath his head is soft but the alien - _ha!_ \- smell is making his nose twitch. He attempts opening his eyes again and the pain is less this time, but he sneers at his surroundings.

He is in a human hospital.

There are sick patients shuffling past him, lying in beds across from him. He has been placed in a far corner, away from the main buzz of the intensive care unit, but the smells and sights do nothing to ease his mind. Why is he here? It is disgusting, to even be near these filthy creatures.

His eyes flicker around, trying to find out why he is not up and moving, why he is still in this rather uncomfortable bed. And the pieces click together as he finds his legs in casts. When Heimdall stole his powers, he must have also taken his immortality. Loki wants to bang his head against something. **Hard**. To add to the humiliation, Loki faintly remembers falling to Earth, the screech of tires and then. . .he was hit by what a human calla a car.

"Hi there."

He looks up for the briefest moment and finds to his left, a smiling young woman. She is aesthetically pleasing, her features soft and round, her eyes the most peculiar shade of turquoise and has a patchy head of dark hair; he cannot discern a color. He blinks slowly and then looks away from her, choosing to ignore her attempt at conversation and stew over his predicament. What was he to do now? There was nowhere for him to go, he had no powers, there was nothing he could do.

And then _she_ speaks again.

"My name is Luxia, what's your name?"

He closes his eyes and breathes in deeply, trying to ignore her again. The first thing he needed to do was find somewhere to plot some sort of revenge. There were several beings he could still call on, several other creatures more than willing to help him bring Asgard from its heavenly orbit. But he had to choose wisely, these creatures would also eat him alive. And that was not on his list of life experiences.

"Don't have ta be mean," her voice has a slight a drawl to it, but it wasn't thick, light enough to actual draw his attention again.

His eyes flickered around her face, seeing how she was wrapped in one of those paper gowns and she was twitching nervously. "Must we have this interaction? I am trying to figure a way out of this."

Her laugh tingles through his ears, making him narrow his eyes gently. She waved a hand at him, shaking her head and then she opens her eyes again; they seemed to sparkle. "Oh, sweetheart there is no way out of here until those legs of yours heals up. And by the way it was busted when ya got in 'ere, you'll need rehabilitation. You aren't leavin for awhile."

He swallows thickly. "You saw. . .?"

She nodded a little, picking at the frayed hem of the blanket covering her. "Yeah, you looked like shit," she smiled at him, in a worn way. "But I supposed I wasn't doing any better, I look fantastic compared to you."

"You seem fine," he grumbles, hating how he is being drawn into a temporary normalcy.

She laughs again and there is a bitter undertone to it. "Honey, are you blind," he shakes his head, jaw set in aggravation. "Then how can you not see how sick I am?"

His eyes find her face again and he now takes her full appearance in, his brow deepening. Her eyes are sunken, hollow, her lips severely cracked and blue. "What is wrong with you?"

Her lips flutter for a moment. "Chemo is a bitch."

Chemo? "Leukemia," he questions; _explains the patchy head of hair._

Her eyes widen for a moment and then she nods. "Wow, got it on th' first guess," she looks up when her name is called. She looks back to him with a sad smile. "Tell them to keep your bed here. They'll come for you again in an hour and I won't be back for awhile."

"Why would I want to stay here?"

She smiles and welcomes a nurse in snowman scrubs that helps her from the bed, ignoring him for a moment. As she slides from the bed into the wheelchair, he can't help but notice the deep violet hue across the back of her neck and arms, the stitches that flash on her lower back. His face is placid as she smiles up at the nurse, putting on a strong face but he can see the cringe from sure pain coming for her. Her eyes then go to him, her hands stalling the nurse who has all of the patience in the world.

"Tell them to leave your bed here," she says firmly. "Say my name, they'll listen. Bye."

It's the most spontaneous encounter he has ever had, even though he is practically tied to a bed in the middle of a mortal hospital. He rolls his head and secures his eyes on the ceiling above him, mind wandering constantly and then he purses his lips gently. Why has this happened to him? Oh right, he killed more than a handful of humans in New York. So what, many men had died at the hands of Odin and did anyone scold him for it? Banish him, like they should have? No, they did not. So of course, when the unwanted son does something like that, he is cast out. He would have rather he be locked in the dungeon. To Odin, that probably seemed like the cushy life.

Loki closed his eyes, the wear of being injured in such a way making him tired. Was this what it was like to be mortal? It seemed like such a bore. . .

* * *

Loki did not belong here, he belonged on a throne, ruling over a kingdom. But no, he couldn't be there. He had to be hopelessly mortal and stranded on an alien – there's that word again – planet with no means of income, privilege or really rights. He briefly wonders if he will be able to leave this retched place. There were no set boundaries, no promises or deals. No typical saying like ' Until you have learned the consequences of your actions…'. No, it was simply, 'You are stripped of your powers and left to your own devices, have a dismal life among the creatures you hate so much'.

Loki did not hate humans. He couldn't stand them, but that didn't mean he hated them. They were below him, they were nothing but they weren't quite vermin.

"You still didn't give me your name."

Why does she insist on talking to him?

"You seem smart enough to figure out that I am ignoring you for a reason," he doesn't even look at her.

"Yeah, but you still answer me. So I guess we're at a sort of impasse."

"Damn you, mortal."

"Huh?"

He slipped. He can't slip, he can't have that. Not until he had his powers restored, until he was able to figure out a plan.

"Quiet, I am thinking."

"You're so rude, sugar. That kind of attitude don' get ya far in Atlanta."

Atlantis? No, she said Atlanta. What the Hel was an Atlanta? It must be the city or town they are in. Well, there is something. Perhaps. . .perhaps he can get more out of this human willing to speak to him. The human that insists on conversing with him. As she falls silent, he hears shuffling and tries to fight the urge to peer at her, fights the urge to see what it is she is doing beside him. He succeeds for a moment, eyes riveted to the lights above him but as another slick sound passes through his ears, he finally gives in and looks over at her.

She has a book placed in her lap and her eyes are moving at a fast pace, her fingers slipping through the pages faster than he has seen in awhile. "You read."

She looks up at him as he speaks, sort of stunned that he is speaking at all, and then she stutters out an answer. "Y-Yes," she hesitates; he's talking to her! "Do you?"

He huffs and closes his eyes, head rolling as if he is staring at the ceiling again. "Of course I do, only uncultured swine do not appreciate the beauty of literature."

Her breath is snatched from her throat and a small squeak escapes her lips. She is happy and his eyes take that in, his lips twitching slightly in the corners but she cannot take it in right now. Her stomach is rolling and her head is spinning; she's gonna throw up. She reaches to the right of the bed, fingers finding a button and she presses down on it hard before she clambers to the place between her and his bed. She comes up with a pink, plastic bin and turns away from him as she vomits into it.

Two nurses come running as Loki watches in curiosity, disgust hidden behind that. "Here sweetheart, put this on ya forehead," one of the nurses mutters, holding a cool cloth to Luxia. She takes it with a mute nod and closes her eyes. "Blood pressure spike, side effect of th' pain killers."

This woman's accent is far less pleasing than the young blonde who is now asleep. Loki finds he does not like it, not one bit. In a way, he thinks how dare she, taking something so disgustingly beautiful and changing it into something that needs to be in an old western? And then he realizes his fault and huffs, closing his eyes again. He cannot wait to be rid of this realm and its insufferable human occupants.


End file.
